


Sleepless in Gotham

by ladyspock7



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dealing with Homophobia, Fluff, Homophobia, M/M, Romance, possibly some porn later if I'm brave
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:43:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspock7/pseuds/ladyspock7
Summary: Oswald deals with his fear of coming out as he develops a relationship with Jim Gordon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings to one and all. I usually write Megamind fanfiction, but I've gotten into watching Gotham lately, and have acquired some major feels for Oswald and Jim, so...here is the result. Some fluff, and good things happening to Oswald for once. (Though some bad things happen along the way, too...that's life in Gotham for you!)

Now that Oswald had made it to the top of Gotham's criminal underworld, he was damn well going to stay there.

If only his victory didn't feel so hollow.

He wished Jim Gordon would come around once in a while, to accept an invitation to one of Oswald's parties or, hell, even to interrogate him about a crime, something. But ever since the Odgen Barker incident, Jim Gordon might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

Oswald had been sure once he'd cooled off he'd be okay with how things had gone down with that disrespectful piece of shit Barker.

Jim had accused Oswald of using him. Well...yes, but... Jim had used Oswald, too, to get his job back, and Oswald hadn't even had to kill the commissioner to do it. People pulled strings, called in favors, asked for help, everybody did it. It was just business, what was the big deal?

He tried not to let it bother him. Tried to shrug it off.

So Jim didn't want to be friends. Fine.

It surprised him how much that stung.

\- - - - -

Then one night, after a particulary difficult meeting with some cronies of the late Don Maroni, which had been resolved in a very satisfactory manner thanks to Victor Zsasz (my God! What a rush that was, to have a killing machine like Zsasz at his command), one of his men was driving him back to the club when they drove by Jim Gordon's car.

Heading home probably, after a late night at the police station.

Oswald had to resist the urge to hunker down in the seat.

Jim stared steadily ahead, concentrating on maneuvering the car through the streets grown slick with rain.

Oswald followed him with his eyes, until the other car passed by and disappeared into the night.

Jim didn't even notice.

Oswald clenched his hands around his umbrella and felt his exultant mood come crashing down around his ears.

Well, what did he want anyway? For Detective Gordon to pull them over and ask what they'd been up to recently? Oh, nothing, detective. Certainly not disposing of some of Maroni's disgruntled henchmen or anything like that.

Back in Fish's old quarters above the club, he splashed cold water on his face and regarded his dripping features in the mirror. Mouth turned down at the corners, eyes full of unhappiness, a drip of water hanging from his beaky nose, his expression matched the dull ache in his chest.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

He'd been so careful. For his entire life he'd brutally squelched any hint of desire that cropped up, until he was sure he'd conquered all but the lust for power.

He was no fool. He rubbed elbows with homophobic thugs too often, he saw what happened to people they targeted. It was safer for Oswald to...just not. Not anything. Don't look, don't reveal, and most especially don't feel. He was a little proud of that little ditty, actually, it rhymed.

Hiding became force of habit. The brutes he socialized with might sneer at his mannerisms, make fun of the way he dressed, or become enraged by his betrayals, but at least Oswald never got his ass kicked for being gay.

Over the years, the situation for the gay citizenry of Gotham had gotten marginally better, but Oswald was firmly entrenched in his ways by then.

Love. Who needed it? Certainly not Oswald Cobblepot.

\- - - - - -

Despite his caution, he slipped up, only once. Shortly after securing employment with Fish Mooney, he went to a porn theater late one night, in an act of tremendous daring. And wouldn't you know it, Victor Zsasz was there too, and spotted him.

Oswald hurried away, and tried to convince himself that Zsasz probably didn't even recognize him. Oswald was a nobody in the organization at that point, a mere go-fer for Ms. Mooney, so yeah, it was all good. Probably.

Zsasz was employed by Don Falcone, who held some very old-fashioned views, and Fish Mooney was one of his top lieutenants.

He lived in dread for an entire week, and just when he began to relax and entertain hopes that he was in the clear, Ms. Mooney summoned him for a little talk. He had to stand in front of her like a misbehaving schoolboy while she lectured him, with her bodyguard Butch watching with an amused expression in the background.

“Oswald, do you know why Don Falcone tolerates Victor Zsasz's...” She shrugged delicately. “Dating habits?”

“No, Ms. Mooney,” he mumbled, hating her and Butch and Victor Zsasz and everyone in the universe.

“It's because Zsasz is discrete. He respects Falcone's views. As do I.” She fixed him with a cold gaze. “No matter our own personal views on the matter, we all have to toe the line. Be a little more discrete, Oswald.”

\- - - -

He was King of Gotham now, but his habit of extreme caution (okay, fine, suppression, denial, whatever) remained. It was familiar, comfortable. Safe. No one near to his heart meant that no one could use it against him.

He'd been so careful. And it happened anyway.

He'd fallen in love with Jim Gordon. An actual, goddamned police detective.

\- - - - - -

So he was glad Jim didn't come around, after that harrowing realization. Oswald wouldn't be able to humiliate himself further with any more adoring gazes or pathetic invitations or declarations of friendship.

Friendship! Jesus! His adoration was so obvious in hindsight. He just had to hope Detective Gordon hadn't noticed.

So long as the detective stayed away, the heartache would pass, eventually. Hopefully.

Oswald plastered a triumphant smirk on his face for the sake of his underlings, and went about his business.

The very night he secured the allegiance of the Beale Street Gang, which allowed alcohol to once again flow freely into the south side, he walked into the pulsing noise of the club to find Detective Gordon perched on a stool at the end of the bar, nursing a beer mug.

Despite the crowd, Oswald spotted him immediately, the familiar profile, the angle of his head, somber demeanor as he ignored the laughing partiers that jostled him.

Jim looked up and met his gaze. Oswald tore his eyes away and busied himself with taking off his overcoat and tossing it at the nearest hovering waitperson.

“What's he doin' here?” Butch grumbled. “Wish I could throw him out.”

“Like that wouldn't look suspicious,” Oswald snapped.

Butch's big pink face wrinkled. “Didn't say I was gonna. Said I wished I could.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Silently he kicked himself for apologizing. Butch was his henchman, even more obedient than the average thug, thanks to Zsasz and his unique brainwashing techniques. And yet Oswald could never quite forget that Butch had once been loyal to their old boss Fish Mooney. Whom Oswald had betrayed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Oswald was waiting for Butch to revert to form and attempt to twist Oswald's head off.

Oswald glanced at his current problem, namely Jim Gordon, watching them with that stone-faced expression all police officers must learn in the academy. “He must have questions about something or other. I'll deal with him.”

Oswald fixed a bright smile on his face and made his way to the bar, leaning close to be heard above the noise. “Jim, my friend. How can I assist the GCPD this fine evening?”

Jim lifted the beer mug. “More of a social call.”

“Of...of course.” The beer mug. He'd been too rattled to realize Jim must be off duty. He never drank on the job.

Oswald twiddled his fingers and opened his mouth to ask, _So why are you drinking **here** , then?_ or _What happened to your other friends?_ , both of which sounded rather rude, so he shut his mouth again.

Jim Gordon never simply 'dropped by,' not without wanting something. If he was trying to throw Oswald off balance, he was doing a great job.

Jim leaned close, and Oswald's stupid heart beat faster at the scent of aftershave. “You got an office?” Jim asked, forced to almost shout. “Kind of hard to talk.”

“Of course, detective. This way,” Oswald said, managing to find a smile, and led the way to the stairs.

Internally he was screaming. A social call. Like hell it was.

Up the stairs and across the carpeted hall, with Butch trailing them and, as Oswald began to close the door, Butch gave him a little nod to assure him he'd be right outside in case of trouble.

It...actually made him feel a tiny bit better.

Oswald closed the door, shutting out most of the raucous noise, though the heavy beat of the band made the floor vibrate. “Drink?”

“Nah, I think I've had enough.”

Oswald poured a shot of Wild Turkey for himself. “Bottled water?” He opened the mini fridge. “Or...” He peered into it, caught sight of the fifty thousand dollars worth of unlaundered twenties he'd stuffed in it when Mother came in unexpectedly, and, snatching a bottle, slammed the fridge shut. “Um. That's it! Just water,” he said quickly. “Really must restock this sometime.”

A nervous giggle threatened to burst out but he fought it down. God, he had to keep it together! Not fall apart just because Jim and his handsome, stern features were shut up here with him in this wretched room that felt as if it was shrinking and growing too hot.

One eyebrow went up on the detective's forehead, but he merely said, “Water, then.”

Oswald handed him the bottle and retreated to his chair behind the desk.

“I want to talk about the favors,” Jim said, taking one of the other seats. “Can we...” He looked around the room as if searching for inspiration, tapping a forefinger on the armrest. “Start over? Stop doing these favors?”

Oswald swirled the whiskey in his glass. _I knew it. It's business after all. Wants off the hook._ “Well, that's a rather difficult thing to ask, Jim, as I'm fairly certain you still owe me.”

“I went to see Odgen Barker. And that favor wasn't as easy as you made it out.”

“Oh, I knew you could handle him.” Oswald waved a hand irritably.

“You knew he'd get violent. You were counting on it so I'd be forced to defend myself.” Jim's face was hard. “I'm not one of your hired guns.”

Oswald glared back. “Okay. Fine.” He shrugged and crossed his arms. “Next time I'll...I'll be upfront. The whole scoop, let you decide whether or not to take the job.”

Jim groaned and fell back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “I don't want there to be a next time. I thought if we could have a clean slate. No favors, no one owing anybody anything, it'd be better if we're not 'friends'.” He made air quotes with his hands.

Oswald let a dry chuckle come out, though he felt his insides sort of shrivel up and die. “Is this some kind of friend break-up? When people want to stop being friends, there's not usually a formal announcement, Jim.” He smiled mockingly, madly, treating Jim to the full force of his disdain.

Why was Jim doing this? Rubbing it in his face that he hated Oswald so much he didn't even have the decency to simply fade from Oswald's life, no, he had to come here and tell him. God, why not just stab him in the heart and be done with it?

Jim leaned forward on his elbows. “Lee and I broke up.”

“Oh.” Oswald deflated a little. “I'm...I'm sorry to hear that.” Maybe this was why Jim was acting so oddly.

“Are you?”

“Well, yeah,” Oswald snapped, feeling more exasperated than ever. “As in, sorry you're experiencing an emotional upheaval, sorry for Dr. Thompkins, she seems like a nice person, so...” He shook his head and shifted his weight irritably. “It's the kind of thing civilized people are supposed to say, Jim.”

Jim looked at the floor. “Wow. I am really bad at this.”

“At what? At socializing? I'll say.” Oswald gulped the rest of his drink, feeling it burn all the way down, and it wasn't even fricking working, he couldn't get a buzz going.

He got to his feet and hitched his bad leg around the desk, the limp worse than ever in his agitation, and went back to the drinks cabinet. “Don't want to be friends, yet you seem to be looking for a shoulder to cry on, honestly I don't know why you had to come here, shouldn't you be out drowning your sorrows and boozing it up with Detective Bullock? That's what he's there for.”

“It was over two months ago. The break-up.” The chair creaked as Jim stood up.

Oswald searched the liquor bottles, trying to find something with more kick. “Oh, really?” he muttered.

“I wanted to be sure.”

“About what?” He poured more whiskey into the shot glass, some of it splashing onto his cuff. “Oh, fuck.”

“Sure about my feelings for you.”

Oswald fumbled the bottle. With extreme care he set it down among the others without breaking it, then turned cautiously.

Jim took a few steps closer, and stopped. “I wanted to be sure,” he said, his eyes steady. “I thought that...having this whole 'favors' thing hanging over us would be...” He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Awkward. Um. I should have said I wanted to be more than friends. All that came out wrong.” He smiled apologetically.

Oswald clutched at the table for support. Jim had never smiled at him like that before. A real, honest, open smile, a little anxious, not at all like the forced smiles he plastered on when he was trying to be polite.

“Oh,” he said. It came out as a squeak. The conversation had switched tracks so fast his mind had gone blank. Jim had feelings? For him?

Jim tilted his head as Oswald continued to gape at him like an idiot. “And I think you feel the same way about me.” He paused. “Am I wrong? I don't think I am.”

A distant crash and a burst of laughter from the ground floor suggested that someone had fallen off a bar stool, to the merriment of their friends.

The club seemed very far away as if in another world. Oswald felt as if he and Jim were in a bubble of quiet, and that sense of quiet built as Jim waited for Oswald's answer.

“N-no. Not wrong,” he whispered, and shut his eyes.

That had not been a smart thing to say. He should have denied it. It was the kind of open honesty that could be used against him. Truth could be wielded like a knife to wound, to maim, to destroy. Detective Gordon must have an ulterior motive, he must, and if Oswald could just get his head to stop spinning he could figure it out.

Could one of Oswald's countless enemies have set this up somehow? Maybe Butch? Butch knew he was gay, but how could he possibly know about Oswald's feelings for Jim Gordon? How could anyone?

Besides, Jim Gordon was impervious to bribes and blackmail.

Oswald's glass trembled in his hand and he held it close to stop it. He couldn't handle this. Any moment now the real motive for Jim's visit would emerge, and Oswald's heart would crack. And he just. Could not.

Jim stepped closer. “You don't believe me.”

“Wanting something to be true isn't the same as it being true.” As if under the control of magnets, Oswald's gaze flickered to Jim's mouth, down to his collar with the top button undone to show the hollow of his throat.

Jim was close enough so he could feel the heat of his body and Oswald hated the spark of hope that leaped in his chest.

He drew himself up. “You're trying to get information. You are, aren't you?”

Jim's lips quirked into a smile. “Seduction isn't really part of usual police procedure.”

Oswald felt like his ears were about to catch fire. If a hidden camera popped out he'd be mortified but not exactly surprised that...

He snapped his fingers. “You're wired. You're wearing a wire, aren't you? This is a prank. Did Bullock put you up to this?”

Jim scoffed, his smile widening, and even that was too damn sexy. “I'm not wearing a wire. No recording devices. Nothing.” He lifted his hands. “You want to search me yourself?”

Oswald felt himself hovering over the abyss, felt himself giving in, he wanted so badly to believe this was true, even though it couldn't be. If he chose to believe Jim, he was opening himself up to a whole new possible world of pain.

“Don't toy with me,” he whispered, half pleading, half threatening.

The amusement faded from Jim's face as he realized that, to Oswald, this wasn't the least bit amusing. “Sorry. I thought a little humor might help. I'm not toying with you, Oswald. I promise.”

Jim stepped closer and gently took the glass from his fingers, setting it to the side. He cupped the back of Oswald's head, sliding his fingers into his hair, and pulled him close, pressing their lips together.

Oswald did his best not to hyperventilate. Tentatively he placed one hand on Jim's firm bicep and the other on his elbow. He had no idea how to kiss, so he followed Jim's lead, maintaining light pressure, keeping his lips soft and pliant, and basically just tried to lose himself in the moment before Jim came to his senses.

Jim's nose brushed against Oswald's cheek and the little puffs of his breath reminded Oswald to remember to breathe.

Somehow Jim's other hand had gotten under Oswald's suit coat, trailing up and down his side, catching briefly on his waistcoat before getting under there, too. His hand seemed to burn through his shirt as it smoothed over his ribs.

Jim's lips parted slightly and closed again, capturing Oswald's' lower lip.

_It wasn't safe, someone might see..._

Oswald flinched.

Jim took his hand out of Oswald's hair and let it rest on his shoulder, and he drew back, though his other hand still lay on Oswald's waist. “You okay?”

Oswald swallowed hard and drew a shuddering breath. “Never been kissed before.”

Jim's gruff eyebrows came together in a frown. “Never? This is all new to you, then.”

“Well, duh. I'm not a catch, Jim,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Even now, with all my considerable influence and power, I'd have to pay someone to.... to do what you're doing. Besides, it's not safe.”

“Safe?”

Oswald clucked his tongue. “You know what I mean. Gay bashing is still kind of thing, Jim, or haven't you heard? Especially in my old neighborhood.” He briefly squeezed Jim's bicep. God, he was muscled.

“But you own this club,” Jim said. “You can do what you want, right?”

“I guess so,” he muttered. He glanced at the door, thinking about Butch lounging in the hall, waiting to escort the detective out.

Jim was silent for a moment. “Want to go somewhere else? More private?”

This was a bad idea. A cop and a gangster. Bad, bad, bad idea.

Within the warm circle of Jim's arms, Oswald silently told his common sense to fuck off.

He looked into Jim's face. Well, was Oswald the boss or wasn't he? And Butch had to obey him. “There's an apartment upstairs. I sleep there sometimes.”

He buttoned his suit jacket up and strode out into the hall, or as near to a stride as he could get.

Butch straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the railing of the stairs that went down to the main floor.

“We're going upstairs,” Oswald announced.

Butch blinked. “Upstairs?”

“Upstairs. And we're not to be disturbed.”

Butch's mouth fell open. “But...he's... him?” he said, clearly scandalized.

“That'll be all for tonight,” Oswald said imperiously, and went to the next staircase, back straight.

Even Jim seemed a little surprised by Oswald's bold move, but he recovered. He nodded amiably at the befuddled henchman. “G'night,” he said, and followed Oswald up the steps.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Butch stared at them until they disappeared into the apartment, then he slowly made his way downstairs to get the security in order for the night.

So the Penguin had a thing for guys. Butch had kind of forgotten about it, actually, what with one thing and another. And the Penguin never had anyone stay over before. Protocol hadn't gotten nailed down yet.

Usually, when it came to bosses, it was a matter of keeping lovers and/or spouses from accidentally running into each other on the doorstep, to keep down the melodrama.

Ms. Mooney hadn't had a husband to worry about, but she'd had a rotating flotilla of lovers and was pretty good about keeping them sorted out, but once in a while some idiot loverboy would show up at the wrong time thinking a pop-in was romantic. That was when Butch stepped in with a smile and steered them off in another direction, took 'em to another bar for a drink, or, on one or two memorable occasions, stopped them from charging upstairs and breaking down her door. A good henchman helped keep the peace.

But always real politely.

He knew he ought to be furious with Penguin for throwing her off that roof, but somehow the memory was distant and vague, as if he'd only watched it on a TV show, and a not very interesting one at that.

His mind still wasn't his own, but there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.

But why was Penguin messing around with Jim fucking Gordon? Mr. White Knight. He couldn't figure it out. Gordon would've left both him and the Penguin handcuffed to those pipes, at the mercy of Maroni's killers, and Gordon hadn't looked too worried about it either until Penguin screamed at him to remember he was a cop, and he'd arrested them and had a responsibility dammit, and only then did Gordon free them.

So Butch just didn't see the attraction. Hell, if the Penguin had an itch, Butch could've gotten him an agency boy, very discrete, clean, guaranteed over eighteen, no problem.

He sighed as he edged through the crowded back room, waitstaff bustling around him. Wasn't really for him to say.

Then again, Ms. Mooney had that on-again off-again thing going with Detective Bullock, and that guy was a master at pretending not to notice anything going on in regards to, say, mysterious packages exchanging hands, or muffled noises coming from car trunks.

Butch shook his head. He had a hard time picturing Detective Gordon looking the other way.

He went out to the back alley, where the other henchmen were smoking.

Butch hesitated, wondering if he should make up some story about that cop spending the night, that they were playing cards or something, then dismissed the idea.

The henchmen had to know the score. Follow orders, let the boss do your thinking for you, keep your yap shut. But in return, they needed to know what was going on, who was on the premesis, shit like that. A romantic partner got different treatment from other visitors. What if there was a lovers' spat and one of these grunts misunderstood what was going on and shot Gordon? The Penguin did not forgive and forget. Heads would roll.

You never attacked the boss's significant other. If things got physical, you pried the weapon out of their hands and maybe restrained 'em until they calmed down, but that was it.

Anyway, the henchmen's reactions would let him know if anybody was gonna have any problems. Butch could weed out the bad apples.

Butch cleared his throat. “Penguin's got a guest. Jim Gordon's spending the night.”

The talk stopped as if hit by a switch. There was only one reason to make a formal announcement about a 'guest.'

Butch cracked his knuckles and ran a hard gaze over them, a look that spoke volumes.

_Anybody got a problem with that? I know you guys don't have a problem with that because we're all professionals here, but if you do, then I'm gonna be your problem._

The faces of Gabe and the other veteran grunts barely moved, other than an almost invisible flexing of eyebrows, but they were clearly processing the information.

Gabe shrugged. “Okay,” he said.

That seemed to do it for the vets. There was a certain relaxing of their shoulders. Butch gave them a little nod. Solid men who knew how to face facts.

The new guys were a different matter. A few of them snickered until Butch's cold look cut them short.

But there's always one guy too stupid to read the room. In this case, Chester. “Penguin's a fag?” he giggled.

He glanced at his compadres to share the joke, but his smirk faded when he realized they had shuffled away from him. “What?” he said indignantly.

“Chester, c'mere. Got something for you,” Butch said.

The dumbass was just smart enough to realize he was in for it, and that there was no escape. Chester's smirk grew a little more worried, but he hung on to his arrogance as he strutted over.

Right up until Butch punched him in the gut.

Chester crumpled to his knees with a strangled noise.

Butch stood over him. “Next time, it'll be a knife. You're young, so maybe you got time to learn. Don't ever dis the boss. Ever. You know what, you can work the night shift the whole next week to get your mind right, how 'bout that? Oh, and don't let me catch you using that word again. It's offensive."

Butch sent most of the others home, and partnered Rocko with Chester, to keep the kid in line. Job done, he went back inside, through the heat and chaos of the kitchen.

Gabe trailed along. “Kids today, huh?” he said. “I thought the younger generation was supposed to be more tolerant and shit. You should've taken a finger off.”

“We're short-handed,” Butch said. “Gotta get these guys trained in.” The ousting of the old order had depleted all the gangs pretty badly. Everybody was scrambling for recruits.

“I woulda made him short-handed,” Gabe said cheerfully.

“Oh, shut up.”

They didn't talk again until they'd gone through the place and checked on the security on the front door. They strolled a little ways down the sidewalk.

“Okay, which of us stays and which of us goes home to a warm bed?” Butch said, taking out a quarter.

“Heads.”

They watched the coin spin into the air and Butch slapped it into the back of his hand, showing tails.

“Damn it,” Gabe grumbled. “Hey, did you know about Penguin and his... preferences?”

Butch narrowed his eyes. “Don't tell me you got a problem.”

“I'm just wonderin', I don't mean no disrespect,” Gabe said in a placating voice and holding up his hands. “I'm making good money with the Penguin, the best I ever got. But I gotta ask, now everything's out in the open, just keeping informed kind of thing. There gonna be a bunch of boy toys prancin' around the place?”

Butch chewed the inside of his cheek. His earlier thought about agency boys seemed ludicrous now. Of course the Penguin knew about prostitutes, because he wasn't stupid, so if he'd fallen for Jim Gordon there was something more going on there than satisfying a basic urge. There was probably feelings involved. Junk like that.

“I don't think so,” he said. “I think he's only got eyes for one boy.”

\- - - - -

Oswald hovered on the threshold of his bedroom, his earlier boldness having evaporated like mist over a bonfire.

Jim Gordon was sitting on Oswald's bed. And taking off his shoes. He glanced up. “Coming in?”

Oswald shut the door carefully and stood with his back against it.

Jim's fingers were busy again, unbuttoning his shirt.

Oswald swallowed hard. “So. Um. Read any good books lately?”

Jim raised his eyebrows and gifted him with a soft smile. “No, Oswald. I haven't.”

Oswald drew a trembling breath that he tried to muffle, as he feared it would be embarrassingly loud. Jim's use of his first name was doing amazing things to his internal organs.

Aware that he ought to be making some kind of effort, he took off his suit jacket. He was standing too close to the door, however, and he banged an elbow into it. Blushing, he went to the closet and hung the jacket up.

The bed creaked, and he looked over his shoulder. Jim walked over to the chair by the desk and hung his dress shirt over the back of it. “Good idea,” he said. “Fewer wrinkles.”

Oswald was transfixed by the sight of Jim's bared arms, the slope of his shoulders, the sharpness of collarbone. If Jim ever attempted to arrest Oswald in that sleeveless undershirt, he'd surrender on the spot.

Jim took a cautious step toward him. “Want some help with that?”

Oswald realized he was supposed to be unbuttoning his waistcoat, but his hands were frozen. “Um, no, I've got it. So, um, do you like music, Jim?”

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “Music? Well, yeah. I guess that'd....”

“Because we could have music, there's a, um...a...” Oswald gestured helplessly at the radio. “You know. That. I-I guess I keep it on AM, though it's corny, my mother always has it on 1390, the 'Magic Station'...”

“Oswald...”

“Well, I don't even know why I brought it up, really,” he said, a little shrilly. “Maybe no music.” He finally got the damn waistcoat off and hung it up without knocking anything down, then undid the knot on his tie. “Unless you want to. Plenty of stations!” He yanked off the tie, nearly giving himself rope burn. “But of course you like music, who doesn't? Only a total psychopath doesn't..... not that you're a....”

_What is this blather pouring out my mouth?! 'Do you like music, read any good books', I'll be talking about the weather next, what the hell???_

Jim was watching him with some concern. A line had appeared between his eyebrows.

Oswald turned back to the closet, blushing furiously. He yanked the tie off and shoved the hangers around, looking for the tie rack. “I should have asked what kind of music. If I had to guess, I'd say hard rock? Heavy metal? You were in the army, right? I don't really know what's popular. Well, I suppose that's a little stereotypical, you could like classical, or, or, or, opera. God, I hope not opera though, I spent way too long pretending to like opera, you have no idea.”

“Oz.” Jim put his hand on his forearm and turned him around.

His heart gave an unexpected leap. Oz. So casual. Jim thought him worthy of a nickname.

Jim put both hands on Oswald's upper arms and looked into his eyes. “We're not going to do anything you don't want to do. If you're not sure, or don't want to, you tell me. Okay?”

The awful tension in his stomach that Oswald hadn't even realized was there eased at Jim's words. He took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Jim studied him as he rubbed Oswald's arms with his thumbs, still with that worried little line above his nose. “Am I moving a little fast? Would you rather go out there, watch some TV?” He nodded toward the living room.

Oswald held onto Jim's elbows and felt as if some of Jim's steadiness flowed into him.

“I-I guess I wouldn't mind lying down. In here.” He was trying for casual, but sensed he was failing badly. He had a feeling Jim knew it, too, and might have even been amused by it, but was too much of a gentleman to show it.

Oswald bit his lip. “But don't think you'll get my clothes off that easily,” he said, a little sullenly.

Jim tilted his head and there was definitely a gleam in his eye as his gaze flickered down and back up again. “That a challenge?”

Oswald blushed all the way down to his collar, but fortunately some of his natural willfulness came to his aid before his knees gave out. “Maybe,” he said with a sniff. “I haven't decided yet.”

“Hm.” A hint of a smile tugged at Jim's mouth, but he seemed to respect Oswald's fragile dignity and didn't quite let his amusement show. Slowly he ran his hand up and down his back. “I hope you take off your shoes, though.”

Which Oswald did, putting the spats aside to be washed as they were splattered with mud from the streets (and nothing else, thank God) while Jim pulled the bed covers back. He padded over to join him, feeling a little ridiculous doing so almost fully clothed but any other alternative was unthinkable. Pajamas? No.

Jim pulled the covers over both of them and enfolded him in his arms. They lay on their sides and touched their lips together.

  
It began to rain, the drumming of the raindrops hitting the roof contributed to the wonderful sense of quiet, making the rest of the world fade away.

Out in the street, a car's tires squealed, then receded into the distance.

Oswald got into the finer points of kissing, the movement of lips and tongue, mouths moving over each other. Jim kissed him thoroughly, slowly. He planted little lingering kisses on to his cheeks and chin, along the edge of his jaw.

Oswald trailed his hands over the slopes of Jim's collarbone and the backs of his shoulders, up the back of his neck and into his short blond hair.

Jim's hand went around the small of Oswald's back and pulled him close so they were belly to belly, and put his leg over Oswald's calves to hold him in place.

Oswald tensed, breathing shallowly. Jim's hands smoothed up and down his back, and Oswald relaxed against him.

The kissing resumed, long and slow. Jim pressed his hands here and there on Oswald's back and sides, fingers flexing and relaxing. He cupped the back of Oswald's neck, pushing under the collar of his dress shirt to caress the nape of his neck and back up, to tangle his fingers in his hair.

Oswald slid his hand down to Jim's cheek, and Jim let go of his lips with a soft sound to look at him.

“You're so beautiful, Jim,” Oswald whispered.

Jim's blue eyes shone in the half-light cast by the desk lamp, his features golden. Then he sat up and took off his shirt, lifting his arms and taking it off in one smooth movement. He raised an eyebrow at Oswald. “This okay?”

“Very,” Oswald said hoarsely.

He knelt beside him and began unbuttoning the top of Oswald's shirt. “And this?”

Oswald's pulse skipped, but he whispered, “Yes.”

Jim's hands moved to the next one. Oswald lay still, his heart pattering away as Jim unbuttoned him, as he tugged the dress shirt out of his waistband and lay it back, exposing Oswald's undershirt and the hamsa that lay on a thin silver chain around his neck.

Oswald felt positively wanton, though not much more skin was showing except for at the collar of his undershirt.

Jim trailed his fingers down to the hollow of Oswald's throat, then down to where the little silver amulet lay. He picked it up, letting it lie on his hand. “This is pretty. A bird?”

“It's a hamsa. Symbol for the hand of God, protection against the evil eye.”

Jim leaned closer and squinted at it. “Oh, yeah, it is a hand. I've seen these, overseas. Never got such a close look. But, is that the evil eye in the center?”

Oswald shrugged. “I don't know why the thing it's supposed to protect against is included but, yeah. Maybe to show God's mastery over evil? Been too long since I went to temple. Might not be the kind of thing the rabbi would talk about anyway.” He rolled his eyes. “My mother gave it to me.”

Jim's look became almost comically skeptical. “Think it's working?”

Oswald laughed weakly and had to compose himself before he could answer. “I.... I'll have to get back to you on that, Jim.” He waved his hands, lying prone. “I'm still breathing, so who knows, maybe it is.”

Jim chuckled too, leaning over him, shifting to a more sideways kneeling position, laying the hamsa down and flattening his hand on Oswald's chest.

It felt so good, this little private joke between them, and Oswald loved the feel of the air vibrating with Jim's laughter. He almost never heard Jim laugh. Had he ever heard him laugh?

“It's a replacement, actually,” Oswald said. “She insisted on getting me a new one after it was lost in the river. I didn't tell her what...really happened... of course...”

His voice trailed away as Jim's smile disappeared. A small cloud formed overhead. Oswald bit his lip. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If he could take those words back, if he could turn back time, if he could...

Jim was silent, his hand still resting against Oswald's chest, and his touch seemed to burn through the thin fabric, over his heart. Jim drew his hand away. “Oswald, I...”

“Don't say it. It's all right,” Oswald said, reaching for him.

“It's not all right.” A muscle twitched in his jaw and the skin around his eyes tightened. “I'm sorry.”

Oswald pushed himself up, almost knocking their heads together. He couldn't bear the guilt in Jim's face. “For what? For saving my life? If you'd flat-out refused, Bullock would have killed us both.” He seized Jim's shoulder, willing him to understand. “You gave me a chance. That's all I needed.”

“Well.” Jim touched his cheek. “Then I'm sorry about some of the other things. After.”

Oswald shrugged. Jim slamming him into the wall had left a bruise on his shoulder that lasted for weeks, but he understood. He'd known that showing up at Barbara's apartment was bound to make Jim exasperated and likely to drive him to get physical, so Oswald had been prepared. It wasn't a big deal. As far as getting smacked around went, he'd had a lot worse. “Eh. It's all right. I know what I'm like. I happen to be very difficult.”

Jim didn't quite laugh at Oswald's attempt at self-deprecation, but some of the tension in his face went away as he reached out to stroke his fingertips over Oswald's cheek. “That's over. I won't lay a hand on you in anger again.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep.” He wasn't sure why he said that.

Jim gave him a sharp look, and something fierce and protective flashed in his eyes. Jim could promise not to be abusive, but the day might come when he would have to lay hands on Oswald in obedience to the law.

Oswald hesitated, then reached out to touch Jim's chest, feeling the lines and contours of sculpted muscle, the softness of skin and hair.

“I won't,” Jim said, his voice a growl, and Oswald didn't know what he was promising to uphold, his spoken statement or Oswald's unspoken alternative meaning. Both, maybe.

That growl. Oswald shivered.

Jim's breathing grew heavier. Gently but with real strength, he pushed Oswald down and stretched out on top of him. He slid his hands under Oswald's back up to his shoulder blades, hiking up Oswald's undershirt so their naked torsos were pressed together.

Oswald clutched at his shoulders, feeling the heavy thud of Jim's heart, his own pulse beating fast.

Jim covered Oswald's neck in open-mouthed kisses, lightly dragging his teeth over his skin and raising goosebumps. Oswald stroked Jim's short hair, running his fingers through it. Jim shifted his weight, pushing a thigh between Oswald's, and he hooked his good leg over Jim's. There was no ignoring the hard bulge pressing against Oswald's hip. Jim had an erection.

Jim captured his mouth again, with a kiss deep and hungry.

Oswald tensed. After a lifetime of deprivation, he was getting a lot of mileage out of Jim's bare torso and heavy kissing, but it was approaching sensory overload. Now it really did feel like things were happening too fast, as if he were careening down a hill in a car with the brakes gone.

Jim kissed his way back down across his face again, and his breath was hot against Oswald's neck. He slid a hand along Oswald's side, down to his thigh, which he gave a little squeeze before letting his fingers travel along to the button on Oswald's waistband. “Yes?” he said hoarsely. “Or no?”

Oswald shut his eyes. _I don't know, it's too much, don't hate me._ “N-no,” he whispered, and his breath hitched.

Jim let out his breath in a slow exhale and stroked Oswald's stomach for a moment, as if he were thinking about plunging due south anyway, then he moved his hand away and let his head droop onto Oswald's shoulder. “Ooohh, so cruel,” he groaned. He shifted onto his side, but kept his arms wrapped around him.

Oswald felt simultaneously relieved and guilty. “Are you angry?”

Jim gave him a little squeeze. “Of course not,” he said.

“Disappointed?” Oswald said, unable to leave it alone.

Jim was silent for a moment. “Oz, I might be, a little, but I'm glad you told me. We don't have to go all the way. I want it to be good for you. No pressure.” He ground his hips against Oswald's thigh. “God, you feel so good. I can wait. I can.”

Oswald snorted in spite of himself. “Who are you trying to convince, exactly?”

“Uhhh, him? He's got a mind of his own.”

Oswald covered his mouth, trying to stifle the giggles. “I hope you haven't named him.”

Jim shook with laughter and rubbed his eyes. “Let's not go there. Forget I mentioned it."

Gradually the giggles subsided. Jim lifted himself onto one elbow. “That can't be comfortable, your shirt all bunched up. Take it off? Please?” He batted his eyes.

Oswald laughed again. “What is that? That expression.”

“This? This is me being charming.”

“No, that is the expression of someone who just stepped on a nail.”

“Ouch.” Jim grimaced. “Now that really hurts my ego,” he said with mock sadness. “Know what'd make me feel better?”

“Uhhh...”

Jim grimaced again. “I meant, you know, your shirt.” He waggled his finger and got a little more sober. “I won't go any further.”

Oswald plucked at the bedspread. “I guess I can allow it.”

He went to the closet to hang up the dress shirt, and, though he knew he was being silly, he had to turn his back to take off the undershirt. Jim was going to see his entire bare torso in a moment anyway, once he rejoined him in bed, but...

When he turned around Jim was watching him with a keen expression that sent a pleasant shiver up Oswald's spine. He ducked his head and climbed back in, to lie on his side.

Jim propped his head on his hand. “What you said earlier, about having to pay someone to be with you. It's not true.”

Oswald huffed out a breath. “That's nice of you to say, but...”

Jim touched Oswald's chin. “I mean it. You think I said that to get you into bed? You are incredibly sexy. I'm lucky no one else got to you.”

Oswald searched his face and found only Jim's usual serious demeanor, along with a quiet intensity that made his face grow hot and a tingle travel up his back. “Well, you do happen to be a terrible liar.”

Jim smiled. He shifted onto his back. “Come lie on my shoulder?”

Oswald snuggled up close. Jim ran his hands over him as if memorizing his shape, and then they lay quietly, listening to the rain as it lightened then ceased altogether. The distant sounds from the bar, barely audible on the top floor, had almost stopped as well. Closing time was still a couple of hours away, but the band was done playing and even the most durable of party animals were running out of steam.

Oswald's eyes drooped and the gentle rise and fall of Jim's broad chest were lulling him into bliss.

“Oz?” Jim murmured. “I'm sorry, babe, but I think I'm falling asleep.” He squeezed Oswald's shoulder.

Oswald's face broke into a smile. Oz, babe, he'd be spoiled for nicknames. “I'm almost asleep, too.”

Jim raised his head to look at the digital clock on the bedside table. “Woke up at four this morning. Yesterday morning.” He let his head fall back with a groan. “How long've I been awake?”

Oswald checked the time. “About twenty-two hours.”

“There, see?” Jim mumbled. “You gotta do my thinking for me.” His breathing deepened and steadied, and Oswald knew that he slept.

\- - - - - -

A faint sound of knocking wedged itself into Oswald's consciousness.

He squinted around the room. Yellow sunlight edged around the curtains, which only happened when the sun was at a specific angle between the surrounding buildings, so he knew it must be ridiculously early in the morning.

An unfamiliar weight pinned him across his arms and he felt a jolt of panic before he remembered.

Jim's arm was the weight. Oswald lay with his back to him and Jim's head rested against his shoulder blades. Oswald had no time to enjoy the peaceful expression on his sleeping face because the knock on the apartment door sounded again, slightly louder but with a timidity that got under his skin.

Oswald lifted Jim's arm aside as carefully as he could, but Jim stirred and peered sleepily up at him.

"Go back to sleep, Jim," he said, giving him a quick smile and brushing his hand over his blond hair, which was sticking up at odd angles.

Oswald snatched his robe off the hook and pulled it on. This better be good. Waking up Jim, bothering them, someone was going to pay.

“The lounge better be on fire!” he snapped, striding across the living room and tying the robe closed with quick furious movements.

“Boss, I am really, really sorry,” Gabe said, his voice muffled through the door. “But could you...”

Oswald yanked the door open. “Well?”

Gabe took a step back with a guilty look. “Could you maybe ask Detective Gordon to come down here a sec?”

There was a crash from downstairs, and the angry voice of someone who had reached his limit.

Oswald blinked. “Who the hell is that?”

“Detective Bullock, boss. I think he kinda got an idea that Detective Gordon's sort of here against his will, that kinda thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hamsa is an ancient Middle Eastern symbol for the Hand of God, especially popular among Jewish and Islamic faiths. I think that there is a general consensus that Oswald is of Hungarian (or possibly German) descent, as well as Jewish (or maybe it was a tumblr post that put that in my head, and I like the idea, because we need more Jewish characters) and I figured that in the melting pot of America, Gertrud Kapelput came across this amulet and decided her boy ought to have one. I'm sorry to say that I don't know very much about Hungary, so I don't know if the hamsa is well-known there or not.... If I've made any grievous errors in interpretation I apologize.


	3. Chapter 3

  
Just last night Oswald had watched with wonder and nervousness as the man of his dreams sat on his bed and took off his shoes.

Now he watched as Jim cursed and fumbled for his clothes, as Jim snatched his cell phone out of the inner pocket of his jacket and groaned, “Oh no, the phone's dead. But I charged it yesterday. I know I did.”

Oswald hugged himself and rubbed his arms as the warm bubble they'd created together last night was shattered by the inevitable cold light of day. “Trouble at work?”

“Yeah, I was on the call list, in case it got busy. Usually I don't get called, but...I guess this must have been one of those times.”

Lips pressed in a thin line, he grabbed his jacket and stood up, striding out to the living room. Oswald trailed after him, feeling ridiculously lost. Jim paused on the threshold of the apartment, buttoning the top and frowning, glancing down the hall as voices raised in argument came up the stairs.

But his gaze softened when he looked back at Oswald. “Isn't how I thought our morning would go.”

Oswald's heart gave a little flip. Our morning. He shrugged carelessly. “Oh, well, these things happen. Maybe there's...”

Raised voices thundered from below. “Damn it, Harv,” Jim muttered, and then he was gone.

Oswald hurried back to the bedroom to get dressed, then he paused. In the time it took to make himself presentable, Jim would be gone. He didn't particularly care to appear before his employees, or Bullock for that matter, in a robe, but...

He still had his pants on, and the robe covered the rest of him decently enough, he decided. He tied it more securely, hurrying out and down the stairs, hitching down each step as quickly as possible, irritated that he'd left the cane but unwilling to waste time going back for it.

The shouting stopped. There was complete silence, and then the sound of Jim's voice snapping out a question.

Oswald had a sinking feeling that he gave the appearance of chasing after Jim, but he had to know. He had to find out what Jim was going to say.

He managed to slow down before the last landing so hopefully it didn't look like he was flat-out running, but he knew that his face was flushed and his breathing wasn't too steady, by the time he got around the last corner.

Gabe and Rocko stood at the bottom of the stairs with their arms crossed. Jim and Harvey Bullock were a little distance away, Jim's hand gripping Bullock's arm as if he'd pulled the other man aside.

Most of the tables and chairs had been pushed back against the walls, as the cleaning crew had been interrupted. A vacuum sat abandoned in the middle of the floor. Three members of the staff were gathered back by the stage, a safe distance away from the commotion, but close enough to see the show.

Oswald narrowed his eyes at them.

They fled into the back rooms.

There. Slightly fewer witnesses to this awkward situation. If only Bullock could be driven away so easily.

Jim looked distressed, though it seemed to be because of something Harvey had said.

Harvey's glance moved from Oswald to Jim and back again, his expression so completely flabbergasted that under any other circumstances Oswald would have laughed. He tried to put on a mask of cold indifference but his stomach was turning over and his heart felt as if it were being clenched in a tightening vise.

Any second now, Jim would chuckle or shrug, and he'd make up some excuse about drinking too much and crashing on the Penguin's couch, and he'd walk out of there, leaving Oswald to shrivel up and die.

Any second now.

“I'll meet you in the car,” Jim said, and turned back to the stairs, but if it was meant as a dismissal, Bullock didn't budge, and merely stared after him, face hardening.

Jim stopped short at the sight of the two thugs guarding the staircase.

“Let him up,” Oswald said testily.

They stepped aside and Jim came up to him. “I have to go,” he said. “Call you later?”

Oswald looked into his clear blue gaze, and he would have reached for Jim's hand, but his lungs felt squeezed from the sheer amount of air pressure in the room.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Of course.” He was amazed his voice was steady.

Jim's eyes locked with his. The fingers of his free hand twitched and his other arm with the suit jacket draped over it gave a little jerk, and for a heady moment Oswald thought Jim was going to embrace him right there in front of everybody.

But Jim stared at him in a helpless sort of way, and the moment passed, leaving him both relieved and yearning. It was just as well, he felt stiff and clumsy, as if his limbs didn't belong to him and a hug would have been horrifically awkward.

The corners of Jim's mouth quirked up into a sheepish grin, and Oswald was certain he was thinking much the same thing. Perfect understanding and a hint of conspiracy passed between them, which warmed Oswald clear through as if they were collaborators in some grand scheme only the two of them knew about.

“Okay,” Jim said, nodding. “Later, then.” He went back down the steps.

Later. Yes, later they could be together, away from prying eyes. Later, they could...

His gaze, which had been following Jim as he walked across the floor, ran smack into Bullock's baleful glare.

The smile on Oswald's face fell into a sneer so fast he almost got whiplash.

Bullock strode out after Jim, shoving his hat more securely on his head.

“Fucking cops,” Gabe said to Rocko. Both of them glanced surreptitiously up at Oswald. “Uh, I mean, exceptin' Detective Gordon, of course. Now there's a real decent...”

Oswald clucked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Oh quit it, you'll hurt yourself.” He went back up the stairs.

He didn't notice the hostile stare delivered at him from the corner where thug-in-training Chester slouched.

\- - - - -

Jim talked to the captain on Bullock's cell.

The last five times he'd been on call, nothing had happened and he hadn't gotten called in. Just his luck this time there had been an emergency and the damn cell battery decided to bite the dust.

Once he handed back the phone there was dead silence as Harvey drove them to the station. Jim had volunteered to work the rest of the day, penance for not being available at the time of crisis.

Definitely not how he'd expected the morning to go. Not quite how he'd expected the evening to go, either.

But reality was turning out to be even better. Oswald was so shy it was fucking adorable, and that was a word Jim wouldn't normally have ascribed to the gangster. Jim could admit to himself that that vulnerability was appealing to his protective instincts in a major way.

The uncertainty of the situation-- he didn't know if Oswald had given up on him or not, as he hadn't stopped by the station to see Jim in weeks-- made him so nervous he'd completely fucked up his carefully rehearsed speech. In the heat of the moment he'd blurted out the whole favors thing, as it seemed to be such a big hurdle. If they were going to really be together, Jim felt it'd be best to keep their professional lives as separate as possible.

The memory of Oswald's bare back came to him, the smooth muscles shifting under his skin as he hung up his shirt, his eyes glancing at Jim from under his lashes as he returned to the bed.

God, Jim had it bad, if watching Oswald neatly put his clothes away turned him on so much. He'd noted every mark, every scar, on Oswald's torso, and felt grateful that Oswald let Jim get so close, to hold him in his arms and...

Oswald wasn't exactly some helpless kitten, but damn, Jim wanted to protect him anyway, as much as was possible.

Harvey shifted in his seat, breaking into Jim's recollection, and he resignedly looked at Harvey's grim profile. “How'd you know where I was?”

“Cartwright was at Penguin's club last night.”

“Really? I didn't see him.” Officer Cartwright wasn't the only cop on Penguin's payroll to frequent the club and come to think of it, such officers generally kept a low profile.

“Well, he saw you. Watched you meet Penguin and go upstairs. He didn't see you come down again, and he was there 'til almost closing time.”

“What happened anyway?”

“6:30 this morning, two gunmen took a tour bus hostage. Needed a few more officers. Since they couldn't get a hold of you, I got lucky, so thanks a lot. One of the perps tripped and shot himself in the head. The other surrendered pretty quick after that. During the clean-up, Cartwright said something about maybe you crashin' at the Penguin's place. I knew that couldn't've been right. He claimed it was.”

Jim sighed and looked out the window, at the buildings flashing by. Harvey delivered the story in a monotone, without his usual opinionated sarcasm or with any amusement about the idiot shooting himself. Usually those kinds of things had him cackling. He must really be pissed off.

Harvey's hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Thought you might be in trouble but I guess not.”

“Sorry to worry you,” Jim said.

A second, heavier silence fell.

“Let's have it, then,” Jim said.

“Don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're going to start yelling sooner or later. Why don't you put me out of my misery.”

“Got a lot to work with, Jimbo, I'm gonna need a minute.”

Jim clenched his fists and waited. Wonder what Oswald's thinking, Jim thought miserably. I left so quickly.

Harvey smacked the steering wheel in a sudden fit. “The Penguin, Jim?” he shouted. “The fucking Penguin?”

“You can't tell me it's a total surprise,” Jim said. “You've made enough smart-ass remarks about it.”

“Yeah, about him crushin' on you. I didn't know it was mutual!” He heaved a breath. “So, what is it, then? You going through some kind of....” He wrinkled his nose and waved his hand around in a circle. “...crisis?”

“There's no crisis,” Jim said. “I'm bisexual.”

Harvey worked his jaw. “Okay,” he said with forced calm. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Whaddya want, a public service announcement?” Jim snapped. God, this always happened, this was why he never told anyone. Always the questions and accusations, forcing him to defend himself.

“Would've been nice to know before you hooked up with that rat.”

“Maybe it's none of your business.”

“I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but why couldn't you go to a bar and find a nice regular gay guy? Get it out of your system.”

Jim's temper flared. “You think all I was after was some dick? Get my fix so I can go back to normal? That's not how it works.”

“Well, excuse the hell out of me, I just don't get how you could dump a gorgeous woman like Lee for that skeevy little...”

“Stop the car!” Jim shouted.

Harvey yanked the wheel to pull over to the curb and Jim slammed out to stride around the hood.

Harvey strode out, too, stopping just short of colliding with him.

“Call him a rat again,” Jim growled. “And I'll break your face.”

They glared at each other, almost nose to nose.

Harvey gritted his teeth, the skin around his eyes tight, and Jim wondered if they really would come to blows, then Harvey sucked in his lips and took a step back.

“Okay. All right,” he said, raising his hands. “That was out of line.” He narrowed his eyes. “Here's a few other words for you, Jim. Criminal. Gangster. Murderer. Are these accurate? Am I allowed to use these words?”

Jim took a deep breath. “Fish Mooney.”

Harvey raised a warning finger. “Don't you dare,” he said through his teeth. “That was different.”

“How? Because she was the right gender?”

Harvey looked away, taking his hat off and dragging a hand through his hair. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. “He killed her, you know,” he said, as if he'd just remembered. He sounded more petulant than angry.

“Yeah, I can tell you're real broken up about it, too.”

“You're supposed to be better than me, Jim.”

“Guess I'm not. See you around, Harv.” Turning on his heel he walked away down the sidewalk.

Harvey cursed vociferously and got back in, revving the motor hard as he started it up.

Jim heard the crunch of gravel being ground under the tires of the car as Harvey pulled up beside him, keeping the vehicle at walking pace, but he didn't look around.

“Get in the car,” Harvey said.

Jim ignored him.

“Goddamn it, just get in the fucking car!” Harvey snapped. “It's gotta be at least two miles.”

Jim eventually slammed his way back in, and Harvey tried to talk to him a couple more times but Jim refused to say anymore.

\- - - - -

Later that evening, Jim struggled to get caught up on his laundry. The machines in his building were either out of order or being used, so he resorted to shoving all his crap into a trash bag and lugging it to a laundromat.

Once he got the machines whirring away, he sat down on the end of one of the benches, putting space between himself and the other customers. Feeling that the noise of the machines added some additional privacy, he called Oswald.

“Hey.”

“I believe the proper greeting is hello,” Oswald said, but his tone was light.

A smile tugged at Jim's face. “Look, this morning was awkward. Not even a kiss good-bye.”

Oswald huffed out a laugh. “It's all right. Not sure that kind of thing ought to occur in front of the help anyway.”

The tension left his shoulders. “I'm sorry I had to leave so quick, Oz.”

“I hope you didn't get in too much trouble.”

Jim shrugged, the thought of Harvey twisting something inside, but he pushed it away. It wasn't Oswald's problem. “Eh, it's fine. Just didn't get the day off like I would've liked. Say, tomorrow I have to escort a witness up north, but I'll be back on Friday. You free that night?”

Oswald sucked in a breath and hummed a bit. “Maybe Saturday would be better. In the afternoon I'm available.”

“Great. Let's have lunch? My treat.”

“As long as it's not out of a food truck, I'm yours.”

Jim's smile could hardly get any wider. “Oh yeah?”

“I-I mean, for lunch,” Oswald stammered. “Available for lunch. Yes.” He snorted. "I swear I can hear you smirking. Is this how it's going to be, Jim? Constant innuendo?"

"Only if we're lucky." He was rewarded with burst of giggling from Oswald and it took some time before proper good-byes could be said.


End file.
